Heart of Midnight
by secretstar
Summary: [One-parter & completed] Late in the night, Rory reminisces about a certain dark haired boy and wonders if she has enough strength to finally move on with her life. A typical night in the mind of Rory Gilmore. Vaguely Literati.


**Title:** Heart of Midnight  
  
**Author:** secretstar  
  
**Summary:** Late in the night, Rory reminisces about a certain dark haired boy and wonders if she has enough strength to finally move on with her life. A typical night in the mind of Rory Gilmore. Vaguely Literati.   
  
**Dedication:** To Elise (Angeleyez) because she wouldn't let me chuck this away into the corner ... to be forgotten. And because she liked the word autumnal ....   
  
**Disclaimer & Credits:** I don't own (obviously), Gilmore Girls is a production of the WB and the brainchild of ASP. I don't dare to mess with the rich and powerful ... what, do you take me for a fool?   
  
Lyrics are by the phenomenal band, _Good Charlotte_.  
  
*Oh, and this is my first GG fic. Go easy.  
  


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It is night. And the world is sleeping in the comfortable silence.  
  
Up above, the sky is painted black and blue and is dotted with a million tiny stars. The moon shines down below, illuminating the world for she is the guardian of the night. The sun had gone to rest for the day.   
  
It is night in Stars Hollow.   
  
The streets are deserted and there is no such thing as a 24 hr mart. Everything closes at 10:00. It is an unspoken rule. If one were to look outside, they would see that the streetlamps are magnificently lit, though there is not a soul wandering at this time of day. The streetlamps were merely a ... decoration.  
  
Fall has finally hit Stars Hollow, much to everyone's delight (Taylor was already making plans for the festival). The oak trees sway back and forth, sending leaflets to the ground. The gold, red, and brown foliage adds life to the usually dull blacktop. And if a citizen were to look up at the sky in the early afternoon, they would see that the usual light blue was replaced by a goldenrod color mixed with a pale red.  
  
She is watching this autumnal phenomenon unfold from her bedroom window.   
  
She doesn't know what draws her to the night. Doesn't know why she is so captivated by the _pearly moon_ or the _diamond studded sky_. Doesn't know why the dry rain of red and gold fascinates her so much.   
  
Doesn't know why she still feels like **this**; always looking at the world through the eyes of a five year old child. Maybe it was because life appeared softer and nicer through their eyes.   
  
Maybe she wasn't as grown up as she believed herself to be.   
  
She lets out a sigh and goes over to fetch a book from her extensive library. Breakfast of Champions, Pride and Prejudiced, Selected Poems by e.e. cummings, The Lovely Bones. Books she has read a thousand times, and then some.   
  
Worlds to escape into. Lives to live.   
  
But even literature could not dull her feelings now.   
  
**He** has managed to ruin it for her.   
  
Two years ago it would have been different. Two years ago those stories would have held _enough_ power and magic. But then again, two years ago, she had been quite naive in her outlook on the world.   
  
She'd like to think that she knew better now.   
  
Fascinated by the texture, she runs a finger over the leather bound books and finally settles on one. The brown haired girl lets out a sigh and pulls it out. A Farewell to Arms.   
  
It is **his** book.   
  
And she has yet to open the worn pages.   
  
Taking a chance, a step, or a leap, she turns around and settles onto her bed with the book in hand, trying to get comfortable. Timidly, she opens the first page and catches her breath. A picture of him and herself is revealed. She is holding onto him as his arm is (almost lazily) draped around her waist, securing her to his side. His face is impassive, though not unfriendly.   
  
And she is smiling. Happy with the world and with life.   
  
Her eyes avert itself from the photograph and land on the pages in the book. She is not surprised to see that scrawny and small handwriting is scattered between the lines.   
  
Of course.   
  
She closes the book and allows her eye lashes to flutter downward. Her sense of longing once dull now threatened to come alive. Hadn't she said that she wasn't going to pine away for him? She had promised **herself** that! She had promised **him** that!   
  
She had said her good-byes, even though he did not have enough courage to say his.   
  
She was always the one who had to say good-bye.   
  
But she couldn't let him enter in again and destroy the wall that she had so carefully and successfully built up to shield herself away from the heartache and the annoying sense of longing. She had to fight it. Had to fight the urge to pick up the phone and call him (Luke had given her the number).   
  
It had been two years after all!   
  
She was suppose to be over him by now.   
  
She knew she had to take a stand. It was all apart of the healing process (a task that she kept putting off).   
  
With trembling fingers she opens the book again and flips through the dog-eared pages. She reaches the back cover in a matter of seconds and her eyes focus on a message that she has never seen before.   
  
_ i'm young and i'm hopeless  
i'm lost and i know this  
i'm going nowhere fast, thats what they say  
that i'm troublesome, i've fallen  
i'm angry at my father  
it's me agaisnt this world and i don't care  
i don't care. i don't care. i don't care ...   
(so i guess that's why it hurts to know that you did)  
  
-June, 2003  
_ **Here's to hoping that someday you'll ... not hate me. **   
  
Her eyes suddenly becomes unusually damp as she reads his short message over and over. Tears threaten to fall out and she does not think to stop them.   
  
They were long overdue anyway.   
  
She allows the salty liquid to rinse away her feelings and suddenly feels as if a weight has just been lifted from her chest. She breathes out steadily, allowing her heart to resume its normal rhythm. Then, turning to the first page, she allows herself to drown slowly into his words. Allows herself to be carried away into another world for the first time in months.   
  
Her mouth curves slightly as she turns the page.   
  
Out in the hallway the grandfather clock strikes twelve.   
  
Outside, the world continues to sleep.   
  


  
**End.**   
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[Liked it? Hated it? Write me a review! Thanks for reading! If you need to e-mail me, please use this address: hardertobreathe@starmail.com, or visit londonrain.net/midnight -- I'd love to hear from you! Thanks again for looking!]   



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